


Uranium

by Orca (Orca2)



Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M, New York, WW2, pre-child labor laws
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-21 21:58:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9568619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orca2/pseuds/Orca
Summary: an affinity for storms





	1. Chapter 1

”Maybe you can convince me something,” Lucetta murmured vaguely into my left ear, in that whimsical tone of hers that uneased me to no end. 

She stared off into nothingness, as she often does, so I took the moment to gingerly rub the place where she had breathed down my neck. Her skirt billowed with autumn air, softly like the wind chimes that hung from our grapefruit tree, while she stayed as still and calm as a marble statue. Disgruntled and looking to distract myself, I probed the gloomy sky for any passing planes.

”What,” I answered, as gruffly as I could muster. It was more of a statement of confusion than an answer, really.

Lucetta smiled and hummed, which almost made me more peeved. I found myself wringing my hands in a display of nervousness I would only ever allow around her. 

”Is it really morning?” Her words tingled with some sort of hopeful anticipation, as if she expected me to pull the sun from the horizon and drop it in her palm. 

I made a sound of exasperation that I'd argue was completely beyond my control, given the circumstance. My eyes felt heavy from exhaustion, and it took more than a bit of effort to gather up my scarce patience and continue. I blinked for a long moment.

”Uh... what do you mean?”

She was mindlessly tapping her heeled shoes on the patio floor, making soft click-clack noises without rhythm. The image of complete serenity. It was hard to believe she was in any way related to me. 

For some reason that train of thought made me shift guiltily in my seat, the shoddy wooden bench making atrocious noises beneath me. 

I think maybe she felt the bench move and thought I was leaving, which was why she darted to hold my arm in place. Her believing I'm the type who'd just leave her without explanation didn't really help this guilt situation. I held her hand with both of mine and smiled down at her sightless blue eyes. Dawn was beginning to seep into the sky and I'd need to be out on my newspaper route soon.

”How is morning any different than other times of day?” Lucetta finished quaintly, with a slight nod of her head.

It was a very simple question, but I didn't really know... how to go about explaining it, or even where to begin. 

”...Morning is when the sky gets brighter,” I stated, feeling somewhat foolish.

She frowned, looking a bit lost. ”I don't know what that is.”

This seemed to be going nowhere fast.

”Errrrrr...” She tilted her head at the noise of uncertainty. ”Morning is when the sun is uh... rising, at twilight it slowly goes away... and at noon it's directly above.” I wondered if I'd said that right as soon as the words left my mouth.

”Where does the sun go?” She asked with wide eyes. 

”Away,” I said bluntly. ”That's night time.” 

Luci nodded her head, as if this was all very interesting.

”Can you prove it?”

My head did a flop. What? How in the world could I prove the sun exists to a blind person? My mouth opened but I didn't say anything. 

I stared at her intently. Her hair looked especially dark under the shade of tree leaves. 

”Um... the sun is in the sky, yes?” She nodded. ”So... when you're outside, and aren't under a shadow, the sun makes things... warmer.” My gaze passed over the sliver of sunlight which had silted over the city. I hoped I wouldn't be late.

I shifted her arm until it was no longer beneath the shade. The light was faint and almost made her skin look gray. ”See?”

She turned her wrist, testing the feel of daylight on her fingertips, furling them then unfurling them.

Her face fell dramatically and I hadn't any idea what I'd done.

”So you have to go now?” She lamented, tugging on the cuffs of my coat.

I choked on some very unexpected laughter. ”Yes.” I raised my brows quizzically. ”What of it?” 

She wrinkled her nose at me. ”You're always doing pointless nonsense and getting yourself the boot. I think you'd be able to keep a job longer if you never showed up at all.”

”I can keep a job just fine, it's only because they all bore me to death and my corpse gets caught in the machinery,” I insist. A bit ruffled, I quipidly added on, ”at least I'm not the family oddball.” 

” _I'm_ the oddball?” She gasped, sounding both theatrical and genuinely shocked, as she touched the indents of the gnarled scar trailing down my face. ”What kind of name is _Asher_?”

I wanted to argue that Asher was a completely normal, sensible name but I found myself sighing with amusement instead. Very odd indeed.


	2. Chapter 2

A bland-looking (what he assumed was an adolescent) stood placidly blocking Asher's path in the early hour of a quarter-past six, with tired eyes and scuffed shoes, as if he'd been waiting by the curb since yesterday. Said stranger seemed to be intent on droning on endlessly about how _very very much_ he needed this particular paper, and how unfathomably _important_ it was that he at least get to look at the front page... without pay. 

Asher had long gave up listening, mussing his hair with uninterest. This situation managed to be both troublesome and boring, a big step-up from his ordinary work days, which were just boring. (The diversity!)

The stranger worried his lip, mittens tangling together in an anxious fashion. ”Doesn't this seem a bit... umm... unnecessary?” He persisted, frustration leaking from his words despite how darndidly he tried to keep up his well-mannered act. Asher yawned.

Without another word, he swerved away and around, continuing on his path. Much to his disdain, the stranger followed him, now more annoying and further set on sharing personal information he really couldn't care less about.

After a particularly brutal jab at his ego, Asher glared in his general direction, resilient from maintaining any extent of polite eye contact. Despite his protests, he continued on bustling down the vacant road, circling his petal faster and possibly hoping the walking migraine wouldn't care enough to catch up. ”Bummer,” he called mockingly behind him. 

”Wait! Please!” His grave demeanor disappeared quickly, chasing desperately after his bike. ”I can pay you back if this issue sells! Personally!”

His tires screeched.

...There was a long pause.

”What kind of backwards logic is that?” Asher chortled, thoroughly confused and almost worried if this kid was in his right mind or not. 


	3. Chapter 3

”And how do you plan on doing that,” Asher scoffed.

”I have a picture in this copy,” he said between gasps. ”I might – I-I'll get a small portion of it's earnings.”  

Asher frowned, unconvinced.

”I'll show you, here.” The stranger carefully took a spiffy black camera from his fanny pack, offering it in his palm. It was about the size of a hardcover book. 

Someone further down the neighborhood stepped out from their house, striding up the walkway to sift through it's mailbox, giving their squabble a sideways glance as she did. This route was usually dead silent, but everyone seemed to be sparking to life during this time of day, with dogs barking in the distance and a faint sound of radio. He could even see a few cars further down.

Asher rolled his gaze over the object, taking a moment to appreciate how shiny it was.

”Expensive,” He drawled.

The camera was pulled back a bit, almost self-consciously.

”Oh! Yeah, I had to save up two years for it. If I had that kind of money to throw around I'd pay you up front, believe me.” 

”Have any shots on you?” Asher pressed, leaning over his bike's steering, and deciding this was more interesting than his average work day.

”My, you're very nosy,” he breathed, but nonetheless pulled a small stack of photos from a slot in his camera and handed them over. ”Be careful with them?”

Asher squinted at the photographs in his hand, studying them over. He tilted a choice few sideways, tongue-in-cheek as if scrutinizing their every detail. With a picture of an empty highway placed against the sunlight, he hummed, then looked back at the very hopeful photographer.

”These are all very forgettable,” he deadpanned.

”Huh?” His eyebrows knitted worriedly. ”What do you mean?”

”I mean, you wouldn't be able to tell them apart from anyone else's photos,” Asher said in an agonizingly pretentious tone. ”They're not interesting or unique at _all_.”

The stranger's elated mood deflated almost like a balloon. ”Can I just see the paper, please.”

He took the pictures from Asher's grasp and stuffed them back in his camera-pocket-thing... whatever that was.

Asher begrudgingly opened his bag and fumbled through the stack, somewhat bothered that this person didn't even have the dignity to at least _defend_ his life-long dedication... hold up,

”What's your name.”

”Uh... do I have to tell you?”

Asher protectively snapped his bag back shut. ”Yes.”

He sighed, rubbing his eye as if an eyelash had fallen in it. ”Maves?”

Asher took out a copy, looking over the printed picture of a burning building under the bold headline _'Local Hospital Catches Fire, 14 Dead'_.

 _Yeah, I suppose you can't talk about the war every day_ , he mused. _There's so many other horrifying things going on, after all._

He felt his eyes widen on their own volition.

To put it starkly, this looked nothing like the pictures he had shown him. Probably because it was just a very big, scary-looking fire. The bright flames licking the building made white streaks, that appeared as if they were melding with the sky. Black smoke could be seen clearly, which meant this fire had happened in the middle of the day. Near the bottom, there were scorched stretchers being dragged out in tangles of sheet. A little surrealist for an informative newspaper, but it surely captured the horror of the moment.

Asher cleared his throat.

He looked down to the bottom of the print, where _'1944 Sloane Hospital in Westchester, New York. c: Maves, Carmen'_  was printed in small ink. 

He handed... "Maves" the copy.  

He watched as he folded it over, staring intently at the print, hazel eyes darting all over the page as if he'd completely forgotten Asher was there. 

He cleared his throat again, more obnoxiously.

”Your name's beneath it... which is why I asked.”

Maves nodded. He stared at it some more before sighing, handing him the paper back.

”Well, sorry for wasting your time,” He said glumly.

Asher made a confused expression, taking the paper. 

”Didn't turn out like I thought it would,” Maves clarified. He gave an awkward goodbye, fumbling another apology and heading back to wherever his home was. 


End file.
